


Twist And Shout

by trashcangimmick



Category: Borderlands (Video Games)
Genre: Alien Biology, Bestiality, Daddy Kink, Drugged Sex, Dubious Consent, Exhibitionism, Humiliation, M/M, Other, Rape/Non-con Elements, Tentacles, Voyeurism, Welcome to the 9th Ring of Garbage Hell, Xenophilia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-10
Updated: 2018-06-10
Packaged: 2019-05-20 14:57:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,473
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14896701
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/trashcangimmick/pseuds/trashcangimmick
Summary: Rhys gets transferred to a shitty job at the Wildlife Preserve after a negative yearly review. Somehow, while he’s trying to repair the thresher enclosure, the containment field gets disabled.





	Twist And Shout

**Author's Note:**

> There’s no hint of informed consent to be found in this here trash fire. But Rhys is a dirty bird and he’s kinda into it anyway. Take from that what you will. It’s tentacle porn, homie.

There are a lot of reasons why being transferred down to Pandora is a punishment in and of itself. Rhys has never been anything resembling an outdoorsman. He doesn’t enjoy extreme temperatures, or weird alien smells, or the constant threat of mortal peril. Sure, people also die on Helios. But it’s usually a quick death. Suffocation in space or a gunshot to the head. If Rhys has to die, he’d really prefer either of those options to getting mauled by a huge corrosive dog alien.

 

That’s what he gets for being _sarcastic and prone to insubordination_. Like it said in his yearly review. Written up and signed by Vasquez with no small amount of malicious glee.

 

A bad attitude apparently lands you a perfectly awful position at the Wildlife Preserve—which really should be called something like the Alien Animal Testing Facility or the Mad Science Laboratory. It’s full of abominations. Genetic experiments that spit in the face of reason and morality. It’s no secret that Hyperion has its fingers in a lot of contemptible pies, but first hand interaction with the sort of shit R&D really gets up to has been sobering.

 

Rhys would look for a new job, but that would be akin to admitting defeat. If he broke down and quit during the first week, it would give Vasquez a huge boner. So for now, he’s just gonna make the best of it. He’ll stick it out at least a month or two.

 

Besides, they really do need him down here. Most of the software is woefully out of date. The hardware is basically a frankensteined mess of spare parts. You’d think Hyperion could devote more resources to containing the monsters they spend so many millions on creating. But then again, everyone down here is probably considered expendable. What’s it matter if a few low-level engineers get devoured by tentacle monsters?

 

Threshers. Ugh. Rhys hates them. He hates looking at them, or hearing them, or being in their general proximity. He hates that in order to check the subroutines of the locking mechanisms on their enclosures, he has to physically plug a handheld monitor and keypad into the ancient fucking motherboard and sit there while he runs tests.

 

“Are you seriously not tired yet?” Rhys sighs at the large, rusty red worm that is repeatedly throwing itself against the force field of its prison—trying to get to him. It’s been doing the same thing for the last hour or so. Ever since he pulled up a chair and started trying to untangle the mess of outdated code currently standing between the preserve’s personnel and grisly death.

 

The worm opens its disgusting mouth and lets out a muted shriek. The threshers are particularly hard to contain. The forcefield also has to extend into the ground, to keep them from burrowing their way to freedom. This one is alone in its cage, which probably means it’s extra dangerous. Rhys wouldn’t be surprised if it killed and ate the rest of its compatriots. Eridium radiation can do weird things to any creature’s mental state. It seems to make a lot of the animals rabid and ready to turn on their own kind.

 

If they were less repulsive, Rhys might actually feel bad for the inhabitants of this twisted zoo. But it’s difficult to find sympathy for something that so obviously wants to murder him.

 

Rhys stretches, cracking his neck. The permanently electrified skag in the cage behind him seems to have fallen asleep. It’s curled up in one corner of the cage. Emitting sparks, but otherwise not moving very much. The cage to the right of the thresher looks empty, but every so often a stalker phases into focus, pouncing on a stray leaf or splashing through the artificial stream. Rhys hates the stalkers the least. There’s something feline-adjacent about them, and he’s always been a cat person. Also, it’s pretty fucking cool that they can turn invisible at will. Rhys would trade his remaining flesh arm for that sort of power.

 

The thresher screams again and smashes itself against the forcefield even harder. Almost like it is upset that Rhys isn’t paying more attention to it.

 

“What do you want?” Rhys groans. “I’m not letting you out. That would be suicide.”

 

Of course, weird tentacle aliens don’t talk. All the thresher can do is make unpleasant noises and flail around. But to test his theory, Rhys turns away again. He goes so far as to stand up and take a few paces down the hall. The thresher wails in a way that almost sounds mournful. Like it’s actually crying out for him to come back.

 

It stops screaming when Rhys sits down again, and resumes its previous mission of attempting to get through the barrier between them.

 

“Wow.” Rhys shakes his head. “Three days and I’m already losing it. This must be a record.”

 

Because of course, this is in his head. He’s projecting emotions onto a creature that clearly doesn’t have the capacity to feel them. He’s homesick. He misses Vaughn and Yvette and the glory of a temperature controlled, sterile environment. He hasn’t been sleeping well in his new quarters. It’s too hot. The food here is terrible. None of the engineers want to talk to him, because he’s just a pale technophile that wouldn’t survive two seconds out in the wild. He’s not a soldier. He’s a soft-handed, socially awkward geek that is clearly out of his element.

 

Maybe things will get better, but Rhys has learned not to expect miracles. He’ll start the job hunt soon. He’s not gonna get stuck here. Probably. Hopefully. Fuck.

 

***

 

On day two of the diagnostics and repairs, the thresher seems to have come to terms with its inability to escape. But it still stays pressed against the forcefield, staring at Rhys with those weird, alien eyes. Or at least, those black beady things seem like its eyes? Rhys is starting to wonder if it might be sick. He realizes that’s stupid, considering it is a science experiment. But this can’t be normal behavior, and it might be an indication that this thing has a fever, or a virus, or is about to die.

 

Or maybe it’s lonely? It’s in that cage by itself. Rhys might be the only living thing it has seen in a while beyond the electric skag that is too far away to interact with.

 

At least he hasn’t named it or anything like that. He’s not attached to it. Even if he’s probably now spent more time with this worm monster than any of his human coworkers.

 

The electric skag and the stalkers have also taken an interest in Rhys. The first day they ignored him. But his continued presence seems to have piqued their curiosity. The skag paces back and forth along the forcefield of its enclosure, never taking its eyes of him. There always seem to be one or two stalkers jumping almost playfully at the walls of their prison, trying to get a better look at him.

 

It must be odd to all of them. Having a person in their presence for longer than a few moments. From the sorry state of all the technology, Rhys knows he’s the only one that’s done this in years.

 

“It’s almost like they want all of you to get out.” Rhys says, mostly to himself. He knows none of these creatures can understand him.

 

But the thresher hisses and wiggles back and forth like it’s trying to contribute to the conversation. Rhys can’t help but laugh a little. It really is a ridiculous looking animal. Like a big cooked noodle with a bulbous head. It would be comical if it weren’t so deadly.

 

***

 

Rhys is almost done running his final test on the lock subroutines when he hears an ominous beeping.

 

He looks up from his monitor just as the forcefield in front of the thresher enclosure flickers and phases out. There isn’t even time for him to feel panic or horror. One moment, he’s sitting there, combing through lines of code. The next, there’s a fleshy tentacle wrapped around his torso, pinning his arms to his sides, and dragging him forward.

 

He’s too shocked to even scream for help. Not that it would matter. Nobody is gonna come running to save him. He hasn’t even seen another Hyperion employee in hours. Everyone else is at dinner, or already in their quarters.

 

This is what he gets for working late. He’s going to die. And it’s probably his own fault. Did he accidentally delete some vital function from the lock? Is it possible he could be that stupid?

 

The thresher makes a soft clicking noise as it drags him closer. It’s not squeezing him too tight. In fact, it’s being surprisingly gentle with him. When he’s about five feet away, it releases him altogether. It sets him down on his feet. It’s a wonder he doesn’t collapse in a trembling heap.

 

There’s another beeping noise. Rhys turns his head just in time to see the force field sputter back to life, trapping him. He can actually feel his own will to survive draining away. No escape. No chance of rescue. Perhaps he should just embrace his death and pray it’s over quickly.

 

The thresher sounds like it’s _humming_ now. Its head is much too close for comfort. And it seems to have more appendages than it did a few seconds ago.

 

Rhys flinches as one of the smaller tendrils reaches out and touches his cheek. It’s funny the sort of things you notice in a moment like this. The thresher’s skin is softer than he would have expected. It’s not scaly. Leathery isn’t even the right word. It… feels almost like a tongue? But less moist.

 

More tendrils reach towards him. Skirting over his hands and arms. The thresher seems confused by his bionic implant. It wrapps a few tentacles around his wrists and fingers, squeezing lightly, rubbing the metal. The humming grows louder.

 

Do threshers always play with their food this way if they have the time?

 

One larger tentacle snakes its way up Rhys’ pant leg. He can’t help startling. He jerks away. The thresher closes in on him. It wants to feel skin. That must be it. Why it didn’t understand the metal of his arm. Why it’s now trying to get under his clothes. There’s no point in struggling. Rhys just stands there in shock as the thresher rips his shirt and slacks. The shredded cloth falls to the ground in a heap, leaving Rhys in nothing but his boxers and dress shoes.

 

He can’t help but fixate on the fact that he’s not currently being devoured. In fact, the thresher doesn’t seem at all interested in eating him. It’s just _touching_ him. Running those weird tendrils all over his skin, making sounds that can’t really be called threatening.

 

Rhys knows he has odd fear responses. He freezes in stressful situations. Can’t get his brain to process what’s happening. It’s why he works with computers and not people. Computers can’t yell at him, or threaten him, and they don’t care if he clams up when the slightest bit of attention is cast in his direction.  

 

When was the last time another person even touched him? It’s been months. He's just always so busy… and terrified of everything that surrounds dating. Even casual hookups are nerve wracking. He’ll only fuck a stranger if he’s drank his awkwardness down to a more manageable level. At that point, it’s rarely satisfying. He always regrets it in the harsh light of day.

 

It’s probably a weird time to be thinking about sex. But he is mostly undressed, and the thresher seems to have fixated on his nipples. It keeps rubbing over them. Maybe because it’s making him jerk and squirm. It also keeps teasing at the waistband of his boxers. How long before those get ripped and tossed aside as well?

 

That does seem to be the direction things are headed. Rhys feels presumptuous for even thinking it. He’s lost his mind. This alien doesn’t want to _fuck_ him. It’s going to kill him. He’s about to die.

 

Right?

 

Rhys registers the tearing fabric. He’s ass-naked. And god help him, he’s half hard. He tries to tell himself it’s just from the physical stimulation. There is no other reason to be aroused right now. Does he get off on the threat of death? He’s certainly never jerked it to the thought of being violated by a bunch of tentacles. Objectively, he’d rather that not happen… but it is maybe preferable to death?

 

The thresher coos at him. Dipping its head down so it’s almost at eye level. It stares at him while it wraps one of its thicker tentacles around his cock and squeezes. Rhys can’t help but gasp. Which is probably a mistake. The second he opens his mouth, it’s slipping a tendril between his lips. Stroking over his tongue. Then there’s a sudden gush of bitter-tasting fluid. Rhys doesn’t want to swallow it. He doesn’t even want to think about what it is. Any and all options are troubling. Just holding it in his mouth for more than a few seconds seems to be enough to doom him. His cheeks are going numb. There’s a very strange sensation sweeping through his body.

 

The liquid must have been some sort of paralytic. He’s heard thresher venom can have interesting side effects. He can’t move his arms or legs anymore. He’s still breathing, which is a plus. He just seems to have lost control of all higher motor functions.

 

He starts to wobble. He’s about to hit the ground like a sack of bricks. Before that can happen, the thresher is wrapping more tendrils around him. Cradling him and holding him upright.

 

Maybe his own lack of panic should surprise him. But he seems to have just slipped into a state of blank acceptance. He has no control over what happens from this point forth. All options have been taken away. It’s relaxing, in a strange sense. Having no agency whatsoever. Yvette always used to joke that he was a subby piece of shit once you got past the barbed wire coating. They both knew she wasn’t wrong.

 

He never thought his own proclivities might lead towards this sort of sticky conclusion. But that’s life in the Borderlands, right?

 

The thresher still has a tentacle in Rhys’ mouth, petting his tongue. And another curled around his dick. The gentle, rhythmic squeezes are certainly strange. Not like any handjob he’s ever experienced. That doesn’t mean it feels bad, though. It feels pretty fucking good, if he’s being honest with himself.

 

Rhys can still move his eyes. He can’t help still glancing around, trying to make sense of his surroundings–even if he’s given up any hope of rescue. He notices the smooth black orb in the corner of the enclosure. Obviously a camera. He knows all the cages are monitored. How else are the scientists supposed to keep track of their experiments? Is that particular camera out of commission? Is security watching this show with popcorn? Did they set him up? That would certainly make more sense than him accidentally disabling the goddamned gate he was supposed to be fixing.

 

God. Is he part of a new experiment? Hyperion doesn’t exactly have a reputation for stringent research ethics. Was he just unwittingly roped into some gross study on what exactly happens if you let a thresher fuck a human?

 

The fact that he’s likely being watched shouldn’t make his cock twitch. Then again, is there a point in feeling shame right now? He’s already lost any shred of dignity he had coming into this. Why not just revel in the exhibitionist thrill? He’s about to be screwed by a tentacle monster on camera. It’s the sort of hedonistic fantasy fulfilment most perverts only dream of. Sure, this isn’t exactly his particular kink. Or at least, he didn’t think it was. But it’s certainly going to be more fun if he decides to go along for the ride.

 

Rhys is sexually suggestible. Always has been. He’ll try pretty much anything if a partner is into it. Who knew it would be such a valuable skill?

 

The thresher grips Rhys’ ankles a little more firmly and begins to spread his legs apart. The lurch of arousal is unmistakable. Rhys moans softly, almost wishing he weren’t paralyzed so he could display his enthusiasm for the proceedings. Not that a tentacle alien understands or cares about things like consent. Obviously, it doesn’t. It incapacitated him. But it also seems to be trying very hard not to hurt him, which he appreciates.

 

Is this stockholm syndrome? It wouldn’t be the first time Rhys adjusted his concept of what is and is not acceptable behavior because of someone else’s desires. It wouldn’t be the first time he found evidence of love and consideration for his feelings where there wasn’t any. What’s it matter if the object of his ill-advised affinity is a sleazy ex-boyfriend or an actual facts monster?

 

Rhys is a survivor. Sometimes surviving means a wholesale abandonment of personal identity and autonomy. He should probably stop thinking so hard about it and focus on the fact that the tendrils brushing against his inner thighs are now slick with an unidentified substance. Alien spit? More of the paralytic venom? Does it matter?

 

He can feel the tip of a tendril probing against his asshole. It feels thin, at least. Maybe the circumference of a finger. Despite the fact that he’s not currently getting any, Rhys is still a sexual being with a vast collection of toys. He takes regular rides on dildos and vibrators of varying sizes. Hell, he’s kind of a size queen if he’s being honest about it. So that first tentacle slides into him without any trouble at all.

 

The thresher coos at him again, tilting its head and moving in even closer. It slips another tendril inside him–already wandering deeper than fingers could go. Rhys can’t move, or really participate. The venom has already made his muscles go slack. All he can do is stare up at the alien that is exploring his insides and take what comes.

 

More tentacles join the fun. Some a little thicker than others. He quickly loses count of how many are inside him. But their collective girth is increasing exponentially. It doesn’t hurt yet. There’s enough of that foreign, slippery substance to ease the way. But the stretch is undeniable. As is the fact that the tentacles keep nudging against his prostate. They aren’t exactly thrusting. But every time a new one slips in, there’s a delicious, teasing friction.

 

Rhys is incredibly full. More full than he’s ever been. This is probably more than he would have guessed he could take without damaging something. But there’s still no pain, even if it feels like he’s sitting on a baseball bat.

 

The first time the tentacles inside him twist, Rhys might yelp. It’s a very strange sensation. Again, not your typical in and out. It’s like the tentacles are trading positions within him. Curling, writhing, spiraling and wrapping around each other in slow motion.

 

Rhys can’t move his mouth to talk. If he could, he’s not sure what he could possibly say. So he settles for making guttural sounds as the tentacles shift and squirm. The tendril around his dick squeezes tighter. It starts to focus the motion directly under the head of his cock. He’s already getting close. There’s so much unparseable stimulation happening. Orgasm is the only reasonable reaction.

 

The tentacles inside him start to move a little faster. It’s not quite like vibration. But there’s slick flesh dragging against his prostate with enough regularity to make him see stars. He can feel himself starting to tense. The terrible, wonderful heat sparks through his nerve endings.

 

Then it hits him like a gut punch. Muscles squeezing down around the impossible girth that’s invaded him. Cock twitching, splattering stickiness all over his stomach. The thresher makes an _excited_ rumbling noise. It unhinges its jaws and Rhys doesn’t even have time to be afraid before it flicks a forked tongue across his stomach, lapping up his jizz.

 

The tendril around his dick releases and the tentacles inside him stop moving. The thresher withdraws from his mouth, but not his ass. It brings Rhys in very close. Presses him up against its trunk like body. Almost like its hugging him. And that is apparently how it intends for him to stay. It’s kind of uncomfortable. Still being impaled, and all. But Rhys supposes it could be worse. He’s still alive and relatively unharmed. He even starts to get some movement back in his extremities after a little while.

 

The forcefield over the enclosure is still very much up and locked. He’s still trapped. He’s slowly getting hard again, because he’s still got an ass full of tentacles, which his body is apparently deciding to interpret as ‘we’re still getting fucked’.

 

He places his palms on what is maybe the thresher’s stomach. It makes a clicking noise. But doesn’t immediately try to shove a tentacle back into his mouth to sedate him again. Maybe it wants to see what he’ll do. Maybe it’s just out of venom for the time being.

 

Rhys shifts around, very careful at first. He’s still a ways off the ground. The thresher is holding him up and against it. He doesn’t think too hard about what he’s doing as he slowly rocks his hips, pushing the tentacles inside him a little deeper. His cock is rock hard again, rubbing against the thresher’s body. It makes that rumbling, purring noise, like it’s pleased with this development. Otherwise, it doesn’t move. It just lets him keep going.

 

There’s no mistaking it. He’s taking an active role in sex with an alien. At this point, what’s it matter?

 

Rhys loses himself in the sensation. The tentacles are still leaking slick. It’s running down his thighs. After some experimentation, he finds a very nice angle that makes one of the thicker tentacles rub against his prostate. He picks up some speed. Every movement makes a filthy, wet noise. He’s gasping. Moaning like the dirty whore he is. His brain helpfully reminds him that this is being filmed. People are watching him get off like this. They’re watching him enjoy it. The idea makes him warm, and shuddery, and fucking desperate to come.

 

He presses closer against the thresher. He just needs a little more stimulation. A little more speed. The tentacles inside him start to shift and twist. He might be kind of screaming. It’s just so much. So good. He can’t take it.

 

There’s a beeping noise behind him. The shock of it sends him tumbling over the edge. He falls apart. Clenching and moaning. Everything kind of whites out for a moment.

 

He starts to come back to himself with the sound of a sarcastic slow-clap echoing through the room.

 

“Bravo, kid. Friggin bravo. I’ve seen a lot of kinky shit before, but that was something special.” The voice sounds familiar. Rhys is way too out of it to draw a connection.

 

The thresher has started to lower him down. Rhys’ feet touch the ground. His legs are still very shaky. He has to keep a hold of the thresher’s torso to stay standing as its tentacles slide out of him with an unpleasant squelch.

 

When Rhys finally turns around to see his audience, he almost falls over from the shock of it.

 

Handsome Jack, CEO of hyperion, his _employer_ , is standing there in the doorway of the enclosure, staring at him the way a skag might stare at a raw slab of steak.

 

“Seriously.” Jack takes a step forward and hits a button on a handheld remote. The forcefield springs up behind him. “Is that the first time you’ve ever fucked a thresher? You handled it like a seasoned pro. Rosie there barely had to convince you.”

 

“R-rosie… ?” Rhys looks up at the thresher behind him. It licks his face, like a friendly dog.

 

“Yeah. Seems like she’s pretty into you. Might be that you look a hell of a lot like my old assistant. Threshers aren’t that great at differentiating between people in the first place. So, y’know, I understand the confusion.”

 

Rhys blinks a few times. Brain still struggling to catch up with everything that’s happening.

 

“Did _you_ do this?” His jaw probably drops open. He can’t help it. That’s the sort of revelation that would send most people off the deep end.

 

“Well, yeah.” Jack snorts. “Welcome to the conversation, cupcake. You think threshers are born knowing how to fuck the living hell out of slutty twinks? I trained her.”

 

Rhys wants to know so many things. How? Why? What the actual fuck? But he did just get screwed within an inch of his life. Twice. There’s not a whole lot of blood up in his brain at the moment.

 

Jack keeps walking closer. Stops when he’s just within reaching distance. He’s just as hot in the flesh as he is in all the company propaganda. Broad-shouldered. Muscular. With a manic gleam in his eye that doesn’t quite come through in photographs. The mask moves with his expressions so smoothly, it seems like part of his actual body.

 

“So, tell me, kid. You tired of being a code monkey?” Jack raises his eyebrows. “Because from where I’m standing, your talents are being utterly wasted.”

 

“What?” Rhys knows he sounds like an idiot. He can’t help it.

 

Especially when Jack reaches out to cup his chin and drag a thumb across his swollen lips.

 

“I need a new assistant. Old one got kidnapped. You know how it goes. And someone has to help keep Rosie in shape. I think we’d all agree you just passed the audition with flying colors. What do you say? Wanna be Daddy’s new sex kitten?”

 

Rhys doesn’t know what to do with that. There probably isn’t an appropriate response. This entire situation is so beyond fucked. His boss just cast him in a tentacle porno without asking first or apologizing after the fact. Though, with everything he’s heard about Handsome Jack… well… yeah. This tracks.

 

Screw it. If the most powerful man in the galaxy wants him as a fuck toy, Rhys might as well take advantage of the opportunity. He did want a new job, after all. It would appear that this offer has much better perks than anything else he’s likely to find.  

 

Rhys stumbles forward a few steps. His legs still not working quite right. He keeps from falling over by putting his hands on Jack’s broad chest.

 

“I’m going to need a substantial raise, plus a huge bonus for this little stunt.”

 

“Whatever you want, babe.” Jack grins. “I’ve got cash to burn. Literally. Sometimes I set piles of it on fire for fun.”

 

“Charming. My name is Rhys, by the way. Thanks for asking.”

 

“Hmm. I like ‘cupcake’ better. Now...” Jack reaches down and pops open the button of his jeans. “You up for round three? Because this boner ain’t gonna take care of itself.”

 

Rhys barely resists the urge to roll his eyes. Sure, he’s got no ground to stand on re: self respect. But also, he’s kind of in awe about what an incredible jerk this guy is. It’s definitely not turning him on. Nope. Not at all. Him and his raging humiliation kink are just fine, thank you.

 

Still. Rhys is quite literally dripping slick. He’s probably never been more ready to get dicked down good and hard.

 

He reaches for Jack’s zipper and tugs it open. He might as well see what’s he’s working with. He wraps his hand around Jack’s cock and gives it a firm stroke. Average length. Impressive girth. Yeah. That’ll get the job done.

 

Jack smiles, all lecherous poison. Then he flips Rhys around, pinning him up against the thresher. Rhys can feel the thick head of Jack’s cock pressing against him for just a moment. Then Jack slides forward. All the way in. If Rhys weren’t already so sloppy and fucked open, he’d be indignant about the lack of foreplay. Actually, he’s still a little miffed. But then Jack starts to move. Snapping his hips fast and rough. It’s easy to get lost in the sensation.

 

“Fuck, baby.” Jack groans against Rhys’ neck. “How are you still so tight?”

 

“It’s a muscle.” Rhys tries for sarcastic, but it probably comes out more breathy than anything.

 

Jack gives him a smack on the ass. Rhys groans.

 

“You got a mouth on you, huh? I like it. It’s gonna be fun finding creative ways to shut you up.”

 

Rhys is halfway through gathering a retort when Jack shoves two fingers in his mouth. It’s a reflex to swirl his tongue around the intrusion.

 

“That’s it, cupcake.” Jack mouths at his shoulder. “You just need something to suck on. Don’t you worry. I’m gonna keep you stuffed nice and full.”

 

Jack is really giving it to him. Rhys can’t hope to match the pace, so he just braces himself and takes it. His dick makes a commendable effort to get hard again. But he knows it’s not happening. He’s too wrung out.

 

It still feels good. Jack rutting against his prostate. After all the weird sensations Rhys has experienced in the last hour, it’s almost reassuring to have a thick shaft pounding into him. This is still all pretty far from normalcy. The fact that he’s pinned against a thresher that keeps clicking and cooing at him isn’t easily forgotten. At a certain point, he even feels the tendrils probing over his body. Not trying to enter him again. Just stroking over his skin. It’s _petting_ him.

 

“You ready for it, baby?” Jack groans. Rhythm stuttering. Obviously close. He even takes the hand out of Rhys’s mouth to let him respond.

 

“Yes. Please, Daddy. Come inside me.” Rhys puts on the overly smarmy, high-pitched voice. It’s a swing and a definite hit.

 

Jack comes immediately. Grunting and pushing as deep into Rhys as he can get. Interesting. Rhys files that away for future use. Handsome Jack’s fascinations: tentacles, voyeurism, humiliation, skewed power dynamics, Daddy kink. To be continued.

 

“Damn.” Jack laughs, perhaps a little hysterical. “That was… yeah, that was pretty friggin awesome.”

 

Jack withdraws. Rhys can feel the mixed stickiness of jizz and slick dribbling out of him. He’s never felt so thoroughly debauched. And tired. God, he’s tired. He wants to sleep for a year.

 

Rhys would probably be fine to collapse right there and nap on the ground. But Jack catches hold of his wrist and tugs him towards the door. He seems to remember halfway there that Rhys is completely naked. After a moment’s consideration, he takes off his jacket and drapes it around Rhys shoulders. It doesn’t exactly cover all his important parts, the hem barely comes halfway down his ass, but it’s better than nothing. Rhys pushes his hands down the sleeves and zips it up. They continue to the edge of the enclosure.

 

“Later, Rosie.” Jack calls over his shoulder as he disables the forcefield and steps over the threshold.

 

The thresher lets out a happy squeal in response. Rhys quickly gets into the hallway, and Jack closes the cage behind him.

 

Jack doesn’t say where they’re going. Just ushers Rhys to the the fast travel station at the end of the hall and punches in a code. Rhys is in that weird blue tube of light before he really knows what’s happening. Then he’s digistructed into some hallway of what looks like a Hyperion building. They could be literally anywhere.

 

Jack drapes his arm around Rhys’ shoulders and guides him through a series of twists and turns. They get into an elevator. Jack presses his thumb into a scan pad and they’re going up.

 

The doors open into a luxurious penthouse. Full of alien artifacts and undoubtedly priceless paintings. Of course, there are also plenty of statues featuring Jack himself. This is Jack’s office. His actual office. Rhys always dreamed he might one day set foot in here. Not under these circumstances, exactly. But he’ll take it.

 

Jack steers them out of the main room into an adjacent area that has a couch, and a TV, and looks more like an actual living space.

 

“C’mon, sweet cheeks. You need a shower before I’m letting you on any of my furniture.” Jack grins, patting Rhys on the ass.

 

Rhys scoffs. But he follows Jack into a luxurious bathroom, with a glass-walled shower, and a golden ‘H’ tiled into the floor. New life, here he comes.

**Author's Note:**

> What gross kinks should I tackle next? Shout your answers into the void, or maybe the comment box.


End file.
